


The Only Hope You Have

by masongirl



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Affection, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s01e08 The Last Patrol, Faking Sleep, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Pneumonia, Secret Crush, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25249204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongirl/pseuds/masongirl
Summary: Ron discovers that he can get away with a lot if he pretends he's asleep.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	The Only Hope You Have

**Author's Note:**

> I've just realised this is my first story from Ron's POV! I hope you'll enjoy it. :)

Sleep is a precious commodity in a war, and Ron values it more than anyone. Another half-hour of rest could mean the difference between a corpse and a living soldier, and he knows he won't make it to the end, but he _will_ maximise his chances to take another step towards winning. Therefore, the first time it happens, he refuses to engage in the hope that Carwood will stop talking sooner and let him catch some shut-eye.

"Sir?" Carwood croaks in his sickly voice from the bed Ron managed to scrounge up for him. The rickety frame doesn’t have a mattress, but at least it’s a few inches away from the chill of the ground. "Captain, are you awake?"

Bundled in his sleeping bag on the dirty floor, Ron remains still and keeps his exhales steady. He doesn't want to converse, he doesn't want to socialise. A dead man needs no friends, and he certainly has no need for feelings that could ruin his life. He pretends he doesn't hear Carwood's calls.

"I'm glad you fell asleep so quickly." Carwood whispers, much softer now. There's an inexplicable warmth in his voice that makes Ron's heartbeat stumble. "It was very kind of you to offer me this bed, but I would have been fine on the floor too. Or... we could have shared. I wouldn't have minded."

Ron doesn't plan to do anything with that information. After all, he wasn't supposed to hear it, Carwood didn't mean for him to know. It would be for the best if he ignored it. But he finds himself so fatigued and heavy the next evening that his joints scream at the unforgiving hardness of the floor and his will to resist frays. When Carwood scoots closer to the bedframe, Ron climbs in next to him.

"I hope you don't mind." Ron tells Carwood's back, although he knows he's welcome. He holds himself ramrod straight like a plank so that he doesn't touch anything he shouldn't. He has never been a stickler for rules, but he prides himself in his ability to control his urges. If he can go days without a morsel of food, he will not give in to the temptation of an alluring body. Love is nothing but a distraction he cannot afford.

"Not at all." Carwood says through a raspy breath, and they fall silent. Despite the distance, his warmth seems to seep right into the caverns of Ron’s heart. He hasn’t felt so comfortable in months. 

But pneumonia is merciless, and the front is no place for recuperation. Carwood’s condition doesn’t improve - and, in the middle of the night two days later, Ron is stirred awake by violent trembling and the sound of words hissed between chattering teeth.

"So cold, s-so cold." Carwood whimpers. "F-freezing."

He doesn't seem conscious of what he's doing, so Ron doesn't feel guilty for pressing close, for slotting himself right up against Carwood's back and embracing him. He wraps his arm around Carwood’s waist as tightly as he dares and pushes his knees into the bend of Carwood’s legs, his thighs to Carwood’s thicker ones. The tremors calm, but under Ron's palm, the rise and fall of Carwood's chest is feeble. His illness takes its toll. Ron purses his lips and presses his forehead to Carwood’s neck, his nose to Carwood’s shoulder, and holds him like that despite the smell of sweat, grime, gunpowder and his own regret. When Carwood comes out of his fever dreams, he'll think they moved into this position in their sleep, he's sure. He won't suspect anything untoward. 

As expected, Carwood doesn’t mention it the next day, but his eyes - they seem to meet Ron’s every time Ron gives in to the desire to look his way. It’s maddening. Usually, Ron doesn’t care if someone catches him staring, on the contrary, he enjoys messing with them and contributing to his reputation. But people don’t tend to return his gaze and they never _smile._ Ron doesn’t know how to - he has experience in flirting, but this isn't - what is he supposed to do? He just freezes in place like an icicle. What is it that compels him to repeat it time and again? He can’t seem to get anything done because the gears in his mind grind to a halt whenever Carwood glances at him. It's ridiculous, and he's embarrassed. If his orders sound harsher all day, it’s entirely Carwood’s fault.

Before they drift off that night in another nameless, bombed-down German town, Carwood turns around on the moldy mattress Ron stole from another officer and looks across the narrow space between them. He watches Ron in the dim gleam of the moonlight that creeps in through a hole in the roof. His shallow breathing fans Ron’s balled-up hands. His fever is absent right now, so he left his jacket loose, unbuttoned, and Ron can see the soft material of his sweater.

"I hope my coughing isn't too bothersome." Carwood's words rasp in his throat.

"It doesn't bother me." Ron shrugs, then follows it up with a blatant lie, because one touch was enough to break his resolve, and he’ll feign sleep if he needs to just to get more. "I'm a heavy sleeper."

They hold eye contact for a few more seconds, then the shadows change on Carwood's face. He smiles. "I'm glad."

The silence stretches too long again. It's inappropriate, Carwood must know it too, but he doesn't move and doesn't look away. There's something intimate in watching someone just _be_ and being watched by them at the same time. That sort of thing isn't done between two men. It's probably the sickness meddling with Carwood's senses, but Ron doesn't have that excuse ready, and he finds his brain scrambling for an innocent explanation. He'd rather run through enemy fire than admit his feelings if Carwood confronted him.

"You could sleep on your back. It might be easier on your lungs." He says, and thanks his voice for sounding sharp as steel. "I don't need much space."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." Carwood shoots him another smile, then turns, and Ron's muscles relax.

He pretends to drop off as soon as his eyes close. He keeps his exhales slow and even, and listens to Carwood's sigh, his muffled coughs and the quiet struggle of his body to keep him alive. The sounds scare him. They aren't loud enough. How would he notice if they stopped during the night? He knows he won't get a wink of sleep until he has a surer way of keeping track of that weak breathing. Like he saw other soldiers do countless times, he makes a weak noise as if he was dreaming and swings a sluggish arm over Carwood's stomach, rolling a little closer. He can only hope it's a believable act - although he can't imagine staying unconscious while one of his limbs moves, most people seem to have no recollection of trashing around in their sleep. It can't be too suspicious.

For a minute, nothing happens. Ron's arm rises with Carwood's inhales, up and down, up and down in a shaky rhythm. The uniform is body-warm under the heel of his palm and, if he wasn't supposed to be asleep, he could grasp the strap of Carwood's suspenders. It's a good moment, Ron enjoys waiting it out. Something brushes the edge of his fringe all the way to his temple, and he can't decide whether it's a finger or just an illusion, or maybe a gust of wind swirling in through the cracks, but it makes his ears burn. He's grateful for the cover of darkness.

"Do you have any idea how warm you are?" Carwood mumbles, but he sounds like he's smiling. He leaves Ron's arm draped over his torso until they wake up at dawn. 

The night after that is the toughest since Carwood has fallen ill. The temperature drops below zero again, but there's no snow to insulate the town, just a persistent chill that seeps through the walls and lingers in the air of the too-large rooms they bunk down in to sleep. Even for a healthy man, it's not easy to breathe and to keep moving with fatigue-stiff limbs. For someone riddled with pneumonia, it's outright strenuous.

This time, Ron has the clever idea to pretend he's the one who shivers in his sleep, and Carwood, hazy-sick and tired as he is, buys it without hesitation. When Ron shifts close to his broad back, he leans into the touch and he's the one who pulls Ron's arm around his torso, tight to his chest. What's surprising though is that he doesn't let go.

"Luz told me you gave him a piece of chocolate." Carwood murmurs with a soundless chuckle.

He waits, maybe testing if Ron is truly adrift in his dreams, and hell, it's not an easy one to pass. Ron wants to object, he wants to blurt the truth out, that he _traded_ that chocolate bar for an extra blanket Luz unearthed in an abandoned house, but he can't, because then, he'd never get to touch and listen to Carwood like this again. He curls his free hand into a fist and concentrates on his breathing.

"I think you like him." Carwood continues, and his thumb swipes over the cuff of Ron's shirt. It's almost a caress. The howling wind makes the boarded-up windows rattle, and a shudder draws a gasp out of Carwood. Ron squeezes ever closer, but it's not enough. He wishes he could get away with a tighter hug. Somewhere in the distance, a shell goes off.

"Explosions used to make me laugh." It's muffled - and a second later, Carwood coughs into the mattress. "God, I'm sorry. I swear - I swear it's getting better."

It's the same line he said when Ron snapped and yelled at him this morning, when Ron told him his selflessness was going to kill him, but stubborn as ever, Carwood refused to leave. He refused to even entertain the thought.

"Sir?" He pants now. "Ron?"

When he gets no reply, his fingers shift on Ron's forearm. "I wish I could tell you how selfish I am when my heart is involved." He sniffs. "You're right, I could leave and recover in a hospital, but if I were to go… as a lieutenant, they might not send me back here, and I can't let that happen, Ron."

"Do you know why?" He whispers.

His hand slides down, pausing after every tiny, tentative inch, until his fingertips reach bare skin, and his hand curls into Ron's. They breathe out at the same time, but Carwood is too relieved to notice. "Do you think it's foolish?"

 _Yes,_ Ron wants to laugh, _yes, we're_ _a pair of fools,_ but for lack of a better option, he just presses his nose to Carwood's nape. An unfamiliar tingle of happiness settles in his mind. He's almost twenty-five now, but he has never experienced this joy before - it's better than the thrill of a jump and nothing like kissing a woman he doesn't care about - suddenly, it feels like this is the heaven he's been fighting for.

"I'll take this as a good sign." Carwood chuckles and strokes Ron's hand, lighter than the sweep of a butterfly's wing. "That's my only hope, isn't it?"

Ron lies awake and wonders if there's a way for him to survive this war after all.

_~End~_

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome. :)


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